Bottom's Up
by MapleKomori
Summary: Hetalia gets drunk. Warning: this fanfic contains Hetalia nations behaving most inappropriately and should not be read without rubber gloves and safety goggles.
1. Chapter 1

Canada woke up wearing Russia's coat. After blinking a few times, he forced the weariness from his eyes enough to take in his surroundings. Hedges. Rows and rows of flowers. An ornamental birdbath. He was in the garden behind Austria's house... but why? Canada sat up and immediately regretted doing so. A throbbing headache overtook him, and the exquisitely manicured garden disappeared into a green blur. He tipped forward and proceeded to puke his guts out. When it was over, he didn't feel all that much better. What's worse, he saw that he had thrown up on a circle of blue fabric that he quickly realized was Norway's hat. At least, it had been Norway's hat the day before. Now it was a trampled mess, although Canada still felt guilty for sealing its doom.

There was movement in Canada's peripheral vision. He shook his head and brought himself to a reasonable level of alertness. It hurt. Just a few metres away, a figure with a cowlick and a bomber jacket strode by. The figure approached the birdbath and began to pee in it. Canada wandered over.

"A-America?" Canada said. "What are you doing?"

America turned to greet his brother. He either didn't notice or didn't care that he was now missing the birdbath and nearly splashing Canada's feet.

"What's it look like I'm doing?" he said.

"Well... I mean..."

"Hey, nice getup!" America said with a laugh. Canada looked down at himself, remembering that he was still wearing Russia's coat for some reason. He began to unbutton it, but buttoned it back up just as quickly when he saw that he had absolutely nothing on underneath. America laughed. He zipped up, spat on his hands, and slicked up his cowlick.

"Some party last night, huh, bro?"

Canada put his hands over his face.

"To be honest, America, I don't really remem- whoa!"

Something large and firm had bumped up against Canada's leg. His glance flew down to see Poland, rolling over in his sleep. The nation was wearing a hot pink cocktail dress, which was not out of the ordinary, but he was also wearing a fake moustache. Poland's skin and dress were both stained from the grass. Well, possibly the grass. He was covered in bright green blotches anyway. His shimmery painted eyelids fluttered as he awoke.

Completely ignoring the two nations standing over him, Poland stretched out and grabbed an item from underneath the leaves of a nearby petunia. The item appeared to be an orange.

"Super cool," said Poland, his voice crackling with tiredness. "I finally found the other one." He peeled the orange and attempted to pop a segment into his mouth. That's when his hand bumped into the moustache. Sighing, he pulled it off and poked at the bits of glue that had held it to his face overnight.

"Aww, France," he whined.

"What the...?" said Canada. "What's happening?"

"Huh?" said Poland, looking up. "Oh, hey, you two. Like, want a snack?" Poland offered the orange around. America helped himself to a piece. Canada was too busy surveying their surroundings.

For some reason, there was a grand piano sitting in the middle of the rose garden. The ground nearby was littered with empty packets of... something. Atop the piano, Austria was passed out. His face was covered with marker scribbles; a spiral around one eye, sunshine rays decorating his mole, and cat whiskers drawn on his cheeks. Most peculiarly, he was wearing frilly bloomers and France's cloak.

Elsewhere in the garden, Russia lay in a kiddie pool in the middle of the grass. China was curled up on top of him. Both were naked. Only Russia's scarf remained on; it was draped around both nations. Although Russia's beefy limbs flopped out over the sides of the pool in all directions, he somehow gave the impression of hugging China. Perhaps it was because he had his head tipped to the side, almost like the two nations were nuzzling in their sleep. Russia stirred, and the bright green liquid that filled the kiddie pool rose and fell.

A short distance away lay a heap of fabric. Canada ventured a little closer, and saw a pile of brown hair and a flower at one end. Memories from the night before flashed through Canada's mind. Hungary was there, and for some reason, she was wearing a ridiculously frilly dress. At the other end of the pile, Canada observed, were two shapely legs that disappeared up into a pair of boxer shorts that bore the Prussian flag. Canada hurried away, not wishing to investigate further.

In his escape, he tripped over another sleeping body. Denmark sat up. He licked his lips a few times, and then looked skyward.

"Is it morning?" he asked.

Canada looked up. The sun was directly overhead.

"I think it's around noon," Canada replied. A wide grin spread across Denmark's face. Shakily, he got to his feet. Before Canada could ask Denmark anything else, Denmark pulled his own coat open. He unbuttoned his pants and looked into his underwear.

"Awesome!" Denmark said.

"I don't think I want to know," said Canada. Denmark punched the air and danced in circles around Canada.

"Norway owes me a beer," said Denmark. Canada sighed. He backed away from Denmark, only to be nearly plowed over by Germany.

"I already told you, Italy," said Germany, "I would never ask such a thing." Gritting his teeth, Germany stomped away. A tearful Italy pursued.

"Ve, ve, Germany, I remember it perfectly."

"No, you don't," Germany shot back. "You were drunk."

"We were all drunk. Even so, I remember."

"Italy! Will you shut up already!"

Some nearby bushes rustled. Out popped Romano, who rolled up his sleeves and showed Germany his fists.

"That's it!" shouted Romano. "I've had enough of you ruining Italy's life, you potato-eating, army-leading, tank-building bastard!"

Romano bounced around Germany, ready for a fight. Instead, Germany just sighed.

"Not that it's any of your business what I do with my personal life," he said, "but there's just no pleasing you, is there?"

Romano stopped in his tracks. He lowered his fists.

"Huh?"

"First you don't like that I'm training Italy. Now you don't like that I'm keeping him at a distance."

"Nooo," said Italy. He fell to his knees and hugged Germany around the legs. "Germany, I don't want you to keep me at a distance."

Italy cried and cried, gurgling something about a diamond and inordinate amounts of pasta.

"See?" said Romano. "You're making my brother cry." He brought up his fists once more and charged toward Germany. Unblinking, Germany stood stock still. Romano froze in his tracks.

"You're just lucky I'm hungover," Romano said in his most menacing tone. "If not, I would fight you here and now. Really, I would."

He slunk away, and was crushed by England, who fell out of a tree. Canada looked around at the once-pristine garden that was now littered with empty beer bottles and solo cups and tangles of discarded clothing. He exchanged glances with whatever nations were conscious.

"Please tell me someone remembers what happened last night."


	2. Chapter 2

SIX HOURS EARLIER

The sky lightened with the hint of the approaching dawn. As the sound system pulsed, France sat himself down at Austria's piano. He cracked his knuckles and announced that he was going to play along with China's musical selection. A half naked Austria staggered out from the shadows and reminded him that China was no longer the DJ.

"He's not?" said France. The goofy smile on France's face said he should have stopped drinking several hours prior.

"No," said Austria, equally out of it. "He started the playlist, but he's gone... er... somewhere. Somewhere away. Oh, my precious piano..."

The two nations were interrupted as Denmark, Germany, Italy, England, America, Romano, and Canada paraded by in a conga line. Canada was wearing Russia's coat and everyone else just looked severely dishevelled. Austria scanned the line to find Poland, who was mysteriously absent.

"Maybe just let it go," said France. "You look lovely as you are." Austria looked down at himself. The frilly bloomers weren't even so bad. It was the bra that bothered him. He self-consciously folded his arms over his chest.

"It just feels awkward now," Austria complained. France took off his cloak and draped it over Austria's shoulders. With heavy-lidded eyes and a crooked smile, Austria nodded to France in thanks. He sat on top of the grand piano as France began to play. France's playing was quite good when he was sober, but tonight was not one of those nights. As France endlessly plopped his hands over the keys, Austria fell asleep. The conga line came around again and France played even louder in accompaniment of their singing.

A row of solo cups sat along the fence. Each was filled with a bright green liquid. When England spotted them, he broke away from the conga line. It was chilly in the early morning air, especially since he was wearing only his waiter apron. He figured a drink would warm him up. After fetching himself a cup or two, he turned around just in time to see France standing behind him.

"What do you want from me, you miserable wanker?" England slurred.

"I can see the truth just as plainly as you," France said. He swept his arm out in a gesture that he thought looked romantic. As a result, he knocked himself off balance and fell to the grass.

"Angleterre... if you have two drinks with you, then surely that is because you wanted to share with me."

"That's not likely," said England. He wandered away, a cup in each hand. France pursued. They chased each other around the garden, except it was at a slow zombie-like pace rather than proper running. Like stumbling toddlers, really. Eventually, England tired of it. He downed both drinks, threw the empty cups at France, and climbed up the nearest oak tree. It looked as though he might fall at any moment, but somehow, England managed to pull himself up and steady himself on a branch. Gripping the tree bark, France readied himself for the climb. However, his dizziness prevented him from reaching England. France hugged a branch that lay a few levels below England.

"Ha!" said England. "You'll never get me now."

"I don't need to get you," said France. "I just want to look up your skirt."

England flailed.

"Stop it, you pervert," he said. "And it's not a skirt. It's an apron. A manly, manly apron."

"I've got what I need," said France. Both nations clung to their branches and fell asleep like drunken sloths. Below them, Hungary pranced around the base of the tree. She was wearing a fluffy dress and drinking out of a full size vodka bottle.

"France and England, sitting in a tree," she chanted. She took a swig from the vodka bottle. Unable to spell out loud, she continued to dance to the beat of the letters. She tripped over something which turned out to be the body of Norway, passed out on the grass. Hungary fell forward, the thousand layers of her fluffy dress spilling forward over her head. She tried to stand, but that just made her dress flip forward even more, revealing that she was wearing Prussia's underwear. After a few futile tries to get up, she closed her eyes and decided to go to sleep instead. Norway crawled out from under her.

"What time is it?" he asked. "I hope Denmark's thingie came off."

Hungary mumbled an incoherent response. She grabbed the vodka bottle and drained it.

"Whoa," Norway said, crawling beside her. "Don't you think you've had enough?"

Hungary laughed.

"Please. I invented palinka. This is nothing." She looked up in no particular direction.

"Do you hear me, Prussia? This is nothing!"

She passed out. Norway crawled a short distance away and did the same.

No one noticed as Prussia staggered toward where Austria was collapsed on top of the piano. He was giggling to himself and had a sharpie marker in his hands.


	3. Chapter 3

ONE HOUR EARLIER

Tears streamed down Germany's face as Italy snuggled in his arms. Nothing else in the world mattered to them; not America's singing, not Poland's weird thing with the orange, and not Norway's intense staring at Denmark's crotch. All that mattered was that they finally had each other. Germany and Italy leaned back on the grass. A thousand beer bottles surrounded them, but under the decorative lights of Austria's garden, even that looked romantic.

"Do you mean it, Germany?" Italy asked. He hugged Germany a little tighter.

"Yes, Italy," Germany replied. "You mark my words. By next summer, we'll be married."

"Ti amo, Germany."

"Ich liebe dich, Italy."

The lovely moment wasn't even ruined by China jumping over them. It was almost ruined, however, when Russia followed suit. When you're lying on your back and Russia jumps over you, that's scary. When he's naked, it's extra scary.

"If you want to be the DJ, aru, then you go ahead," said China.

"But I don't want to do it alone," said Russia. "I want to do it with you." Russia put his arm around China. His scarf, the only garment he was still wearing, draped over China's shoulder.

"Would you become one with me?"

"No, aru!"

"Then would you like to have some more vodka, and then after that become one with me?"

"Ay yah," said China, facepalming. Then he got an idea.

"Russia," he said. "We are both a little drunk, aru. Perhaps if we had something to eat, we would be able to think better."

China reached into his pocket and pulled out a large bowl of noodles. They were steaming and dotted with lots of tiny shrimp.

"Here we go, aru," said China. "It's China's wonderful delicious noodles."

Russia blinked.

"How do you keep that in your pocket?"

China looked down at himself. He patted his own clothing down in confusion.

"I... don't... know... aru."

"Let's find out!" said Russia. He proceeded to strip China. "Maybe you have dim sum in there too."

"Wheee!"

China put his arms up over his head and let Russia search him.

"I love being drunk, aru," he said. "This must be why you're so happy all the time."

Soon, China's clothes were scattered all over the lawn. The two nations exchanged glances and grinned at each other. A short distance away was the kiddie pool, a collaboration by Russia, America, and England that would never be forgotten. China and Russia got the same idea at the same time.

"Vodkaaa!" they shouted, and jumped into the pool. The bright green liquid within splashed out over the sides. England, clad as a sexy waiter, ran to the side of the pool. He dropped to his knees and shouted at the heavens.

"My plan is ruined!"


	4. Chapter 4

TEN MINUTES EARLIER

Even Russia had a limit for how much vodka he could handle. That limit was clearly in the metaphorical rear view mirror (Kids, don't drink and drive).

For reasons he could not explain, Russia felt compelled to strip off all his clothing. He caught sight of Austria's piano through the salon window and though, "that needs to be out here with us." He marched inside, hoisted the piano over his head, and carried it back out to the garden. On the way, he may or may not have stepped on Soft Plush America.


	5. Chapter 5

HALF AN HOUR EARLIER

Poland scampered across the lawn, happy as could be. He clutched an orange to his chest.

"I got it! I got it!" he sang. "Now I just have to, like, find the other one, and it will totally be a matching pair!"

Oblivious, Poland nearly crashed into Canada, who was glumly wandering the garden. Canada, too, was oblivious to this, because all he did was down another beer and mutter something to himself. Oddly enough, he was wearing Russia's coat. Then again, maybe that wasn't so odd, because England was wearing his sexy waiter outfit and it was more or less that time of night already.

England hurried across the lawn, dragging an empty kiddie pool behind him. Russia followed. He was shirtless and carrying an armload of vodka bottles. Bringing up the rear was America, carrying thirty packages of kool aid in a flavour unknown. Whatever flavour it was supposed to be, it was neon green.

"This is the best plan ever," England slurred. "No way France is going to put a fake moustache on me again. That cheese-eating, accordion-playing, beret-wearing bastard."

England dropped the kiddie pool on the lawn and grabbed a few of the bottles from Russia. As he and Russia filled the pool with vodka, America began to rip open the packages of kool aid and dump the powder in.

"Ruhuhuhuhuuu," he laughed. "This is going to be hilarious."

"Shut up, America!" England snapped. "How dare you interrupt me when I'm monologuing. And damn that France. He never pronounces the letters at the end of his words. Waste of letters, that is. If you're not going to use the letters, don't put them on the ends of your words."

Russia smiled at the green liquid filling the pool.

"There's enough alcohol in here to kill someone," he said.

"Sure is," said America. "Wait. What?"

He turned to England.

"What ARE we doing this for?"

"France," England replied. "Fraaaance. And his stupid moustache."

America laughed.

"That doesn't answer my question at all, but I like your skirt."

"It's a bloody apron!"

England leapt at America, knocking him to the ground. America grabbed England by each of his wrists and wrapped one leg around him. Kicking off the ground, America let the momentum flip them over.

Grinning, Russia watched them fight.

Meanwhile, France, Italy, Romano, Norway, Denmark, and Poland paraded by in a conga line. They sang and chanted nonsensical vocalizations in time to the music. Well, except for Poland. Poland was waving his orange around, singing:

"I've got Austria's boobies! I've got Austria's boobies!"

"Where's the other one, aru?" China called from by the sound system.

"I, like, don't know," said Poland. "But I'll find it!"

China nodded. He had another shot of whatever Denmark and Norway had brought to the party, and he cranked the music up.

The conga line continued. Romano punched the air.

"That's right, China! You play that music. You play it loud!"

An operatic scream rang out across the garden. Austria ran by the conga line, heading nowhere in particular - but at least he was headed there fast. He was wearing frilly lace bloomers and had his arms crossed over his chest. It was hard to see, but behind his arms, he was wearing a lacy bra that hung limply over his nipples.

"My oranges!" he shouted. "I am in need of my oranges!"

Hungary chased after him. At least, it looked like she was chasing after him. It was hard to tell, because she was wearing a dress so fluffy she looked like a big lacy cloud. Despite the wind resistance created by the many layers of lace, she wasn't doing too bad a job at keeping up with him.

"Please!" she shouted. "He doesn't look right without the oranges to help him fill out that lovely bra." Laughing, she staggered toward the back of the conga line and joined in.

A considerable distance behind, Prussia hopped along after her. He had his hands over his crotch and was wincing with every step.

"The Awesome Prussia cannot run like this!" he said. "They're too tight!"

Hungary waved dismissively.

"Grow some ovaries," she said. As the conga line passed by the garden table, she grabbed an unopened full-size vodka bottle.

"I'm going to have fun with this," she said.

France laughed louder than a collective noun of hyenas. Or, even two collective nouns. He reached into the pocket of his cloak and pulled out a hideous fake moustache. Then he tapped Italy on the shoulder. When Italy turned around, France popped the moustache onto his face. Italy patted his face, and out of pure shame, began to cry waterfalls.

"You stupid jerk," Romano screamed. "You made my brother look like a fool." Romano whirled around, causing the rest of the conga line to pile up.

"Ah, Romano," France said with a sigh, "it is only some humour." It seemed that Romano did not like that brand of humour much, because he wrapped his hands around France's throat.

This only made Italy cry more, because he hated seeing his loved ones fight.

"Stop your waterfall crying this instant!" shouted Germany, appearing out of nowhere. "I have something to say."

Italy's tears slowed and quieted but did not stop. France and Romano stopped trying to kill each other. The music continued at a deafening level as Germany waved for China to turn it down. China didn't notice.

"China, stop the music. China! CHINA!" Germany took out his gun and shot one of the speakers. China lowered the music.

Germany turned toward Italy. France, Romano, and the remainder of the conga line participants gathered around.

"I hate seeing you sad, Italy," said Germany. His breath strongly indicated large quantities of beer, while his eyes indicated sincerity. Perhaps, in this case, both were accurate.

"I hate when you're sad, because I love you."

"Awww," said the other nations.

"SHUT UP!" said Germany. The other nations shut up. Germany got down on one knee.

"I want to spend the rest of my life making you as happy as possible."

"Oh, wow!" said Italy, looking at the little box in Germany's hand. "Does that mean there's pasta in that box?"

"Ah... It's a diamond ring, actually," Germany said. He opened the box so Italy could see it. "I'm asking you to marry me."

"Oh," said Italy, sounding a little disappointed. Then, his face brightened.

"Oh!" he said. "Yes, Germany. Of course I will marry you!"

He put the ring on his finger.

"Will there be pasta at our wedding?"

"Yes, Italy," said Germany. "Lots of pasta."

Italy blushed.

"You always know just what to say."

Italy fell into Germany's arms. The two nations kissed forever. Their friends cheered.

"Oh Em Gee!" said Poland. "That is, like, so romantic. But also kinda stupid, because pasta has carbs. Eww."

"This is the happiest day of my life," said Italy.

"Mine too," said Germany. "I just hope I'm sober enough to remember it tomorrow."

All the nations gathered around and hugged and laughed and celebrated their friends' engagement.

Somewhere on the far side of the garden, Canada wandered alone. He kicked over a lone orange and watched it roll into the darkness. Sighing, he had another swig of beer. This whole night smelled like beer and vodka and musk and sadness.


	6. Chapter 6

ONE HOUR EARLIER

Norway had followed Denmark into the house. The two nations drunkenly staggered down the hallway. As Denmark closed the bathroom door behind him, Norway sunk to the floor. The cool tiles felt refreshing against his face.

"No cheating, Denmark," Norway mumbled into the floor. He hardly heard Denmark's reply. No, that was not the Denmark he knew. Denmark might still cheat if beer was involved. Norway took it upon himself to check.

"Open up," he said, patting his hand along the bathroom door. He put his ear up against the door to listen.

"Kinda busy here," Denmark called through the door. Norway slumped on the floor. No way he would lose. No way.

"Seriously, Norway," Denmark said. "Are you listening outside the door?"

"I'm being responsible," Norway replied.

"Go away!"

Norway pretended to go away.

"No cheating," he said in a warning tone. He sat in drunken silence and wondered if he could summon a troll to keep an eye on Denmark. The toilet flushed. The faucet ran for a moment. The door swung open, and unfortunately, Norway was leaning against it at the time. He found himself on the bathroom floor. Denmark's clammy hand helped him up.

"Don't worry, Norway," Denmark said. "I promise I didn't cheat."

Norway grabbed onto Denmark's belt.

"Let me see it."

The two were interrupted by a very small parade coming down the hall. In the middle was Austria, who was being swept along by Prussia and Hungary. Hungary was carrying a kit full of makeup and an oversized puffy dress.

"You're not waiting for the bathroom, are you, Norway?"

Norway shook his head.

"Then it's makeover time!" said Hungary. The very small parade marched into the bathroom and locked themselves in. Curious, Denmark and Norway listened in. There was an awful lot of shuffling, punctuated by intermittent voices.

"Ooh, he's so cute in lace."

"I could rock that way better than he could."

"Really? Bloomers? These are a lady's underwear."

"Then how about we all switch underwear?"

"That sounds festive."

"These are oddly comfortable."

"Um... I don't really fill this out."

"That's okay, dear. I brought produce."

"What the -!"

"He's just cranky because he hasn't gotten laid since 1848."

"I thought you said -"

"I told you, it was getting boring."

"I beg your pardon. Why am I here?"

"Hold still, dear. I can't do your lipstick while you're talking."

Meanwhile, outside in the garden, England watched as Russia filled America's glass with vodka.

"Thanks for the booze water, bro."

Russia nodded and smiled. He filled his own glass and raised it.

"And now, we drink," he said.

"To partying!" America said, clinking his glass against Russia's so hard that he caused Russia to spill a few drops. Russia gave America the coldest, hardest, steel grey side eye anyone could imagine. American didn't notice. He just reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of powdered sugar and chemicals.

"What is that?" Russia asked. "Some sort of stupid American thing you do to make an unpalatable world taste better?"

"Yep," said America. He ripped open the package and poured the kool aid mix into his glass. Lacking a spoon, he swirled it around to facilitate mixing. More vodka spilled. Russia winced.

"Dontcha wish Russian stuff was palatable? Yes, indeedy, that is the American way."

"Of course," England whispered to himself. "It's got to be green and horrible. That'll show him."

Lunging forth from the shadows, England staggered over toward America.

"America, old friend, I simply must borrow some of that lovely... whatever that is."

He smiled, trying to appear as sincere as possible. However, that illusion was erased as soon as England began talking to himself.

"I'll show that bastard, France. I'll tempt him with this green American drink and utterly humiliate him while he's in a state of inebriation. I will get him drunk off my hump! Damn hump drunk!"

"You smell like beer," said Russia. England nodded and pointed at Russia, shaking his finger in agreement.

"You're damn right that French bastard will pay for getting on my bad side."

"Dude," said America. "I don't think you have a good side." America waved and gestured, spilling more vodka. Russia had to suppress the urge to hit America, not because he didn't want to hurt him, but because there would be the collateral damage of yet more innocent vodka.

England drunkenly wandered away, still talking to himself.

"I'll make loads of kool aid alcohol," he said. "I'll even be the waiter and serve it to him. Where the hell is my waiter costume?"


	7. Chapter 7

TWO HOURS EARLIER

The party raged on, even though it was the wee hours of the morning. Denmark danced on top of Austria's grand piano while Austria shouted at him to get off of it.

"Sorry, Austria, but I have to do this," said Denmark. "It's for science."

Meanwhile, Hungary and Prussia sat opposite each other at a little table, far into the garden. They had each downed their tenth shot and neither showed signs of backing down.

"Shots aren't affecting you, huh?" said Prussia. "Maybe we should switch back to beers again."

Hungary raised an eyebrow.

"Liquor, beer, I don't care," she said. "You name the challenge. I can still drink you under the table."

Chuckling, Prussia leaned back in his chair. He thrust his hands toward his crotch.

"So get under the table and drink me," he laughed. He dodged Hungary's shoe as it came flying toward his face. Then he laughed even louder. And her other shoe hit him in the face.

"Okay, okay, I get it," Prussia said. He poured them each another shot. "You're cranky, I'm sexy, you can't handle it."

Hungary brought her shot glass to her lips and tipped her head back. Then she slammed her glass back down onto the table. Somewhere, about twenty paces away in the distance, Austria shouted something about using a coaster.

"Actually," said Hungary, looking Prussia in the eye, "I was thinking about that."

Prussia, who was in mid-gulp, turned bright red. He choked for a moment, then spit out a generous mouthful of alcohol. It sprayed all over Canada, who was already down to his T-shirt and boxers.

"That's fine," Canada muttered to himself. He crossed his arms and pulled his soiled T-shirt up over his head. Then he dropped it on the ground behind him.

"Yep, it's aaaallll fine," Canada said. His eyes were red from his lack of blinking. He slipped off his boxers. That's when Russia hurried over to his side.

"Wait, Soft Plush America," Russia cooed. "Please don't be naked. You will get cold." He took off his heavy tan winter coat and draped it lovingly over Canada's shoulders. Perhaps unaware, Canada wandered away, laughing to himself. Russia shrugged, had another swig of vodka, and walked in the opposite direction.

Meanwhile, Prussia was still sputtering and flailing and trying to find a way to respond to Hungary's suggestion.

"By the way," she said, "your last shot doesn't count since you spit it out. Do it again."

"Wait," said Prussia. "Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait."

Hungary waited. Prussia continued to panic.

"What do you mean, you were thinking about it?"

"Well..." said Hungary. She grabbed Prussia's overturned shot glass and set it upright. Then she plucked the liquor bottle from his side of the table and filled the glass to the brim.

"I was just thinking, Austria and I have been married for a while now, and it might be fun to... make things more interesting."

"You mean, a threesome?" Prussia said.

"Drink the shot," said Hungary. Prussia picked up his glass and drained it.

"I was going to drink it anyway," Prussia said. "Now, what's this about a threesome?"

Hungary sat back in her chair. She crossed one leg over the other and looked off into the distance.

"Ever had one before?"

"Of course I have," Prussia said. "The Awesome Prussia has had many nights of doing the old Mawaru Chikyuu Rondo with two people at once."

A smile crossed Hungary's face, which doesn't really mean much since she always smiled blankly whenever alcohol had infiltrated her bloodstream.

"Good to know," she said. She reached for the bottle to pour the next round of shots when Prussia stopped her.

"Of course," he said, "all those threesomes have been with two ladies. I'm not interested in inviting another sausage to this festival."

"But Austria's the wife in this relationship anyway," said Hungary. She gasped. Her eyes opened wide. Then she began to laugh so hard she fell forward onto the table.

"I just had the best idea," she said.

"A twosome?"

"No," said Hungary. "Let's dress Austria up like a girl."

She got up out of her chair with stars in her eyes. Prussia slowly rose from his seat as well.

"It's not exactly what I had in mind," he said, "but at least I get to humiliate Austria, and that's what really matters." The two of them ran off in search of Austria.

Meanwhile, Canada wandered by, still talking to himself. Tears streamed down his face. In his hand was a beer bottle, mostly empty.

"This coat," Canada whimpered. "It smells like musk and sadness."


	8. Chapter 8

TWO HOURS EARLIER

It was getting close to midnight and Canada was having a miserable time. Nobody was paying him much attention and he felt too embarrassed and lost to join in on anyone's dance or conversation. In fact, he was always miserable at parties and wasn't really sure what he was doing there. Helping himself to another beer, he set off to walk another lap around the garden.

"Just a few more minutes," Canada told himself, "and I'll go home."

Something crashed into him, hard. A splash of something wet fell onto him. When he looked up, he saw France stop in his tracks and run back toward him.

"Oh, my," France said, helping Canada to his feet. "I am so sorry."

Canada looked down and saw that both his beer and whatever had been in France's solo cup had been splashed all over him. Taking a deep breath, Canada promised himself to play it cool and casual. He got a new beer from the cooler and opened it, but before he could even have one sip, something else knocked him over. France was nowhere to be seen, although before Canada hit the ground, he thought he saw England running toward him. Now wet with three drinks, Canada sighed. He took off his damped hoodie and his dampened pants, and continued to wander around half undressed.

"Come back here, you wanker!" England shouted, oblivious to the fact that he had just mowed Canada over.

"Sure, fine," Canada said. "It doesn't matter." He laughed to himself. It had a haunted, echoing quality to it.


	9. Chapter 9

ONE HOUR EARLIER

France was beginning to feel drunk, but he wasn't done with his mischief yet. Oh, no. In fact, the mischief was just beginning. He had already gotten Norway and Hungary, and now he was sneaking up behind China.

Poor China. He didn't suspect a thing. He was so busy playing with Austria's sound system, switching seamlessly between tracks, that he didn't hear France sneaking up behind him. China felt someone tap him on the shoulder. No sooner did he turn around than did France press something onto his face, right under his nose.

"Ay yah!"

China caught his reflection in the side of a rather shiny speaker. He was wearing a large fake moustache.

"What is this, aru?" China asked.

"I have moustached you, China," said France. France laughed. China shook his head and began to laugh as well. He peeled the moustache off his face and fidgeted with the glue.

"Where did you get these, aru?"

France reached into his cloak pocket and showed China the packet of fake moustaches.

"My dear China," he said. "Romano gave them to me. He said he stocked up on them for military purposes but now has no need for them."

Lowering his voice, France leaned in close and whispered in China's ear.

"My next target is Angleterre."

China waved his hands.

"I do not think that is a good idea, aru. England does not respond well to tricks, aru. Especially from you, France."

France shrugged.

"If the English jerk face wants to lose his composure over a childish prank, then that is a tribute to his maturity level."

"And yours, aru," China muttered, too quietly for France to hear.


	10. Chapter 10

TWO HOURS EARLIER

Prussia waited until he was sure that Hungary was watching. He had poured himself a row of four shots, and when he had caught her eye, he downed them all in quick succession. She responded by raising an eyebrow. He nodded. She grabbed herself a clean shot glass from the bar and marched toward him.

"So that's how it's going to be, is it?"


	11. Chapter 11

ONE HOUR EARLIER

"I knew it was a mistake for me to come to this party," Canada said to himself as he wandered around the garden. He had missed dinner and was already on his third beer. That was probably a mistake too. He promised himself he'd go home before eight. The sun was setting and it was probably time for him to go home.

Over by the bar, Denmark was laughing at Norway.

"Ooh, look at Mr. Organized," he said. "I can't believe you actually made label stickers for the meeting."

Norway's sullen stare didn't turn to look Denmark in the face. He just took a drink of vodka.

"What's wrong?" said Denmark. "Got nothing to say?"

Norway shrugged.

"You can say whatever you like," he said. "They're good stickers. They don't come unstuck."

Denmark picked up his beer bottle and chugged it, finishing it in one go.

"Damn, that was delicious," he said, wiping his mouth. "Are you still talking about stickers?"

Norway hummed a song to himself, just loud enough to make it clear to Denmark that he wasn't interested in talking about stickers anymore. But Denmark was still very interested. He reached into Norway's briefcase, ignoring the nation's firm words of protest, and pulled out the custom made sticker sheet. He peeled one off and stuck it on his own forehead.

"So, will this stay on all night?"

"Yes, it will."

"I doubt it."

"It will stay on if you don't peel it off, Denmark. And don't touch my things again."

Denmark poked at the sticker on his forehead.

"If this stays on all night, I'll buy you a beer," he said. "But if it comes off on its own, you buy me a beer. Deal?"

Norway raised an eyebrow at Denmark.

"It's not meant for skin," he said. "You're going to sweat, which will compromise the glue."

"Fine," said Denmark. He peeled the sticker off his forehead. Then he stood up and shoved the sticker down his pants. Norway sighed.

"Do I want to know?"

"There," said Denmark, sitting back down and reaching for another beer. "I stuck it on the inside of my underwear. Now do we have a deal?"

"Yeah, fine," said Norway, sounding more bored than ever. He took another drink. The vodka was beginning to make itself known. He grinned.

"You know, I never lose a bet," Norway said.


	12. Chapter 12

HALF AN HOUR EARLIER

Prussia and Germany sat by the bar. Well, it was a makeshift bar. Well, Austria had let them carry loads and loads of beer outside and line up the cases all around the garden, and that would serve as the bar. Good enough. In order to lighten the load, the brothers had perhaps split a case or two already.

"All I'm saying is, you're too serious," said Prussia.

"Disciplined," Germany corrected him.

"TOO disciplined. You need to learn how to loosen up and have some fun."

"Is that why I'm in the G8 and you're living in Canada's backyard?"

"Shut up," said Prussia. "I'm trying to offer you my awesome help. If you keep working all the time and nothing else, life is going to pass you by."

At that moment, Italy skipped by, tailing France and Romano as they helped set up the sound system. Germany watched him: that stupid unruly curl of hair, that stupid expression on his face, that stupid blue suit. It was lovely.

"Yep," said Prussia. "Life is going to pass you by."


	13. Chapter 13

TWO HOURS EARLIER

The World Meeting had just wrapped up. The nations gathered up their notes and turned off the lights and locked the conference building behind them. The late afternoon sunshine shone down, hinting at the summer to come.

"That was an effective meeting," said England.

"Hey," said America. "Now that we're all done work for the day, how about we all go have a drink?"

THE END  
THE BEGINNING


End file.
